Chew
by Tackhead9
Summary: An unfortunate fellow who awakens in a bewildered state knows nothing... nothing except chew...


He gave the wad in his mouth one last chew. Pensively. As though his life depended on it.

What was it that he was chewing on again, anyway? It wasn't grass, was it? Grass is often dirtier than you'd think. And it most certainly wasn't tobacco, because the only people who chew tobacco these days are greasy old Mediterranean men. Hairy men of little appeal. Those Mediterranean men, they loved a good chew. They would never deny friend or enemy alike of a chance to chew.

He poked his tongue out, in order to get a good look at his chewing paraphernalia. Ah, yes. It was a piece of paper. Yummy, chewy paper.

Again, he was pensive. Because he was trying to recollect where he had gotten this piece of paper from, or indeed, why he had chosen this piece of paper. Usually, people would chew on gum, wouldn't they? Unless they were Mediterranean. Then, they would be chewing tobacco. But we already knew that.

Trying to decipher this mystery, he rolled his pink tongue out a little more. It was unlined paper! Printing paper, perhaps? That's hardly suitable for chewing. Generally speaking, you'd want lined, notebook paper. It reacts to moisture better. What a terrible mistake.

_Ptooey!_

He spat the piece of paper to the floor. He thought to himself how strange that whole scenario was, before feeling guilty about the gooey pile of mush on the floor. He decided it best to pick it up.

He bent his upper body over, because apparently he was sitting in a chair, but something was stopping him. His hands, as it was, were tied behind said chair.

Looking over his shoulder, he frowned. Shit! That was new. Why were there ropes around his hands? Come to think of it, ouch! Ropes tied around your hands hurt! And they're mighty itchy, to boot.

He looked back down on the floor, simply because he had decided he wanted to observe the paper more, but instead noticed that there were more ropes on the floor. They were longer ropes, and they were circling the entire chair. It seemed as though his whole body had been wrapped up at some point?

Never mind that, let's get these wrist ropes off.

...Wrist rope... sounds like a cut of meat...

He rubbed the ropes against the leg of his chair for a while, having fathomed that that was the most suitable option for removing ropes. In actuality, it wasn't.

His eyes shot about the room. It was a dark room, wasn't it? With a single spotlight up above. He looked up into the light. It was bright! Shit, that wasted time.

He blinked rapidly to try and readjust his vision. The room was small, and a single door laid before him. This wasn't the type of situation he fancied. It would have put him right off his chewing, had he still been chewing.

He felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead. He was surprised that he had noticed it.

Time to evacuate this chair! He began rocking back and forth in an effort to free himself from his furniture-based prison. Damnation, this chair was holding him back from all his ambitions!

His shoulders wretched, as he tried desperately to break the ropes. Or the chair. Or at least to 'break it down', as the hip kids would say. He always wanted to be hip.

Heave-ho! The chair swayed lazily, threatening to collapse at any moment. With a mighty tug, his arms flew to the air, and up above his head.

This was awfully confusing. It seems as though he wasn't actually tied to the chair at all. His hands were merely tied _behind_it. That was hardly a thorough tying job. He scoffed for a moment, pitying the simple-minded fool who had done such a haphazard attempt at bounding him.

Then, it occurred to him: it wasn't me, now was it? The ropes on the floor would suggest that it had been someone else, and the severity of the situation began to dawn upon him. Being tied up in a dark room isn't good. In fact, some may venture to say that it was bad, even!

He stood up, hands still tied together behind his back. From the front, it might have looked as though he were hiding a bouquet of flowers behind his back. He knew that he wasn't, though. He took one quick look. Alright, _now_he knew that he wasn't.

"Help!" he shouted, but stopped himself from doing it a second time.

Obviously, nobody with intentions of helping him were nearby. More likely, the sort of people who lazily tie other people to chairs were nearby. And they weren't the sort that he fancied dealing with.

He ambled up to the door (because he hadn't ambled in a while, and in a worst-case scenario, he wanted to get one last amble in), and began banging his head against it. Ha ha! That was smart. Either he would break through, or he would put a defiant dent in their door.

After a few moments, he recanted his declaration of this being 'smart'. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead. Well shit, it was actually quite dumb.

He looked all around him, breathing heavily now. Why was he here, anyway? Why was he tied up? Why could he not remember a damn thing? In fact, the only thing that he had been paying attention to recently was the paper he was chewing on. Which was daft, considering there were clearly _much more important things to worry about!_

Now he was banging his shoulder against the door. Because he was panicking by this point. The door wasn't budging an inch. Perhaps a millimeter, but he wasn't in the frame of mind to take measurements.

"Fuck!" he shouted to the world and all who would listen. It was the strongest swear he knew, for a peril most befitting. Why the act of sexual intercourse had been adopted by today's society as an expression of disgust was unknown to him. Perhaps people had just been having lots of really disappointing sex?

Dammit! That wasn't relevant, now was it? ...Or was it?

A moment...

No, it certainly wasn't.

He looked down at his shoe. What was that pointy metal thing sticking out from the front of it? That was queer. He knelt over, and upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a knife, protruding right from the sole of his boot. Fancy that! Its uses might be limited in general day to day activity, but it was simply perfect for this exact moment.

It was a cumbersome practice, but eventually he had managed to cut through the rope with his fancy 'shoe knife'. His hands were free, but he was not.

Determined, he took the chair in both hands, clutching it firmly by the legs. He took a deep breath, and swung it at the door with all his strength. It shattered into pieces immediately upon impact. His dismay was unfathomable. Not only had his attempt at herculean force failed, but now he was without a place to sit.

He searched his pockets for something, anything to assist. A mobile phone? A 'pocket knife'? A small person, waiting to lend a helping hand? None of the above. A small pill, however. He peered at it, squinting to make out the indented text printed upon it.

'Cyanide'.

Cyanide? Was that a clue? Was that his name? Were there many 'cyanide pills' out there, and would people have really gone to all this effort to print such a fancy word upon them? Can't be sure.

What he was sure of, however, was that he didn't want to put it in his mouth. For some reason, he had concluded that eating this 'cyanide pill' was a very, very bad idea.

Phew! Crisis averted.

He waited for a few moments, before reaching down his pants and inserting it up his anus.

...Shit, it burns! Ah, medicine was never meant to feel good, anyway.

He returned to the exciting possibilities that his pockets held, now having graduated to the task of searching his coat pockets. What lied in store for him now? He would normally have been giddy with excitement, but now was not the time.

In his breast pocket, he found a single white card, folded. He opened it up, and looked dimly at the words written on the inside.

It said, quite simply, 'remember to swallow'.

Oh dearest heavens! Was he a porn star or something unsavoury like that? He shook his head in bewilderment. He wished that the door would just open in front of him.

Then, it did. Hurrah!

But of course, doors do not open of their own accord. Well, some do, but only in fancy places like restaurants and shopping malls. This particular door was operated by men, burly and mean.

With one look at him, they made colourful exclamations (like 'shit!' and 'fuck!' and 'disappointing sex!') before tackling him to the floor.

"How did he get up?" one of them asked.

"I don't know, but what the fuck is that?" replied another, pointing to the spat out wad on the floor.

The first gingerly plucked it from its resting place of saliva, and observed its contents. His eyes widened as he did this.

"This..." he said slowly, as though his following statement would be unfathomable, "Is the combination to the safe! Right here, in writing! The one document we've been seeking for all this time... and here it is!"

The mean, burly men were jubilant. But our friend, he was not. Because he had concluded that this was not something that benefited him. The gun now pointed at his head confirmed such pondering.

He blinked in rapid succession as he watched the man's finger tighten over the trigger. This was it! He was about to scream, but instead, curiously, found himself merely stating, politely, for the man to wait.

"What?" grunted the man, lowering the gun for a moment.

"I have merely one request." our man declared.

"And what is this?" inquired the man.

"Before I die..." our friend said quietly, "I would like... Something to chew on?"

The gun-toting man looked at his crony. And after a few seconds hesitation, he nodded. For he was Mediterranean. And they would never deny a man of a good chew, friend or foe alike.

And our man knew exactly... what he was going to chew on.


End file.
